


Parlor Games

by romanticalgirl



Category: Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 20:45:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/752905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Compliments of the house.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parlor Games

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://nolivingman.livejournal.com/profile)[**nolivingman**](http://nolivingman.livejournal.com/) for the beta and the inspiration. Originally written for the [](http://aos-challenge.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://aos-challenge.livejournal.com/)**aos_challenge** "Female Characters" prompt
> 
> Originally posted 10-1-07

Bush watches her leave Hornblower’s room, turning his gaze from the window as she descends the steps to the main floor. He follows her down, his eyes on the fall of her nightgown, ghostly white in the darkness.

She stops at the bottom of the stairs and turns, her eyes widening as she catches sight of him. “Mister…Mister Bush.”

He moves down to join her, sliding his hand beneath her arm and guiding her into the parlor. He closes the door behind them, leaning against it as Maria moves deeper into the room, away from his penetrating gaze.

“Did I disturb your sleep, sir?” Her voice trembles slightly as she sits carefully on the edge of the davenport, her hands folded demurely in her lap. “I wasn’t aware you were spending another night.”

“My plans changed.” He moves away from the door, circling the room slowly, his eyes never leaving her. “How long have you and Mr. Hornblower been…friends?”

“Friends, sir? With Mr. Hornblower? Oh, we’re not really friends. He’s kind is all. I try to return payment for his kindness.”

“Is this a service that you provide for all your boarders then?”

“Sir!”

Bush raises an eyebrow in her direction, silencing whatever protest she might make. “Please, miss.”

“No.” Maria holds his eyes for a long moment, fire flashing in the dark depths of hers until she bows her head and looks away. “Only him.”

“Why?”

“Because he is kind,” she says again. “He has little enough of his own, but he’s kind to me and the rest of the girls that work here. He’s neat and tidy and never tries anything.”

“Why try when the lady of the house provides for free.” He comes over and sits next to her on the davenport, close enough that she can smell tobacco and shaving cream, smoke and rum. “He is far above your station.”

“You need not remind me of that, Mister Bush. “ Maria smoothes her hands across her thighs, dragging them over the faded fabric of her nightdress. “Might I go now, sir?”

“I am kind.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Not as a general rule, but when called for, I am kind.”

“I’m sure you are.” Maria stands, stopped by the tight grip of his hand around her wrist. She doesn’t kid herself as her body goes, but his hand is large enough to make her feel dainty. “Mister Bush, release me.”

He tugs her back down beside him, his hand holding her wrist carefully. “More than kindness then.”

“Mister Bush.” Her voice is stronger, and he remembers that she teaches children. Her stern voice chastising him is amusing, and he smiles as he brings her hand to his lips.

“Does he pay you?”

Her free hand comes up to slap him and he catches it just before it makes contact. He holds her there, trapped, and leans in, pushing her back against the low arm of the davenport.

“I’ve insulted you.” He nods and shifts, moving closer. He watches her the way he would watch the sky for a storm, looking for the telltale signs. Maria shivers as her pulse speeds up, her breathing hitching. “I do apologize.”

“Please, Mister Bush…”

“Please, what, Miss Mason?” He leans in further, his lips pressing against the rapid pulse at her neck. “Maria?”

“I am not…” She struggles to keep her head from falling back, from surrendering to the warmth of his mouth moving up her neck. “Not as you imagine me to be.”

“No?” His releases one of her hands to let his fingers slide up her leg, gathering the softness of her nightdress as he goes. She shivers again, the slight motion turning to a full-fledged shudder as he leaves the fabric bunched in her lap and touches her bared skin. “So if I were to touch you, Maria? Would you not be warm and wet from him?”

“M-Mister…Mister Bush!” Her breath shakes as she exhales, the hand he’s released to touch her hanging useless and uncertain at her side.

He slides his hand higher and she gasps, shivering again. His fingers graze the wet flesh, the downy softness of the damp, tangled hair. “If not from him, then this is mine. For me.”

“Mister…” She swallows hard, her body arching slightly into his brief touch, the promise of more. “Please, Mister Bush. You m…you mustn’t.”

“Because you are Hornblower’s?” He slides his fingers against the wetness, letting one press inside her slightly, penetrate her to the first thick knuckle.

“Oh.” Maria gasps roughly as he slides it out then in again, slow and steady. Bush watches her throbbing pulse, her parted lips. He closes his eyes for a moment and draws a deep breath, inhaling the musky cent of sex.

“Should I stop, Maria?”

The hand at her side comes to life, and she reaches up to touch him, her fingers delicate over the rough stubble of his cheek and jaw. “You…you must. I am not…oh.” Her breath catches as his finger slides deeper.

“Tell me to stop. Tell me you’re his.”

“I a…am…I am not. He does not…we…oh.” Her eyelashes flutter against her cheeks as her body arches up into his hand. He needs no confirmation from her that she has been in Hornblower’s bed. He has seen her and smelled her and he can feel the thick heat inside her. “Please.”

Bush growls low, the sound reverberating in his chest as he leans into her, his fingers sliding deeper. She bites her lip, her eyes wide and dark as she watches him, her body contracting around his hand as he works his fingers inside her, the rough calluses abrading the tender skin while his thumb slides over the sensitive button of flesh. Her palm strokes his cheek, no doubt raw from the bristles, as he shifts over her, finally releasing her other hand so he can reach down and unfasten his trousers.

There is something decadent in this, despite the plainness of them both. Something heady and erotic in soiling parlor furniture with their coupling. Bush feels it in the rush of blood in his veins, the pulse beating against his hand as he frees himself.

He eases his fingers from Maria’s flesh, ignoring her soft cry of protest as he reaches for her leg, painting the underside of her thigh with dampness as he guides it up, moving between her spread legs and sliding deep.

He makes surprisingly little noise as he thrusts into her. She bites her lower lip swollen as she struggles to hold everything in, the pressure of her teeth keeping her silent. Bush growls again, his hips thrusting harder as though she has issued a challenge. He wraps his hands over the upholstered wood behind her and drives deeper, his breathing ragged as she tightens around him, a new wash of wet surrounding him.

Bush feels his body contract and buries his face against her neck, breathing roughly as he tastes the damp powdered skin. She whispers his name and he laughs, the sound rough and husky against her. “It does not matter, Maria, that you were his.” His lips and tongue brush against her, echoed by the whisper of his breath. “Because now you’re mine.”  



End file.
